Katie Can't Cook
by chakramrain
Summary: This is the one where Katie Fitch can't cook and Effy tries to help. Giving in is a pathetic process but love is a battle no one wins.


Katie can't cook for her life. Effy knows that. Katie knows that. It's an unspoken principle of life, because Effy knows that if she brings it up, Katie may just whack her over the head with her heel; or not, because Effy has a charming smirk about her face that is typically more handsome than it could ever be on a more angular facial structure and Katie is hardly one to deny that. It's a crippling thing, it is, and Katie hates it as much as she loves it. It's an awkward and strangely unnatural balance, but it's fitting, because Effy is everything that Katie is not, the exception being 'put together'. Neither was ever 'put together'. But now as a whole they seem to be a buoyant ship.

Effy has that fatal smirk resting upon her lips as she watches Katie crack an egg into a pan without first spilling a capful of oil onto the heated surface. She lets her arms snake themselves through Katie's frame so Katie's shoulder-blade cups her chin perfectly. She thumbs the jutting joint at Katie's wrist before, in a split second, dumping the pan's sparking contents into the sink.

"Hey!"

"Hey, you;" Effy laughs, "Oil first. It's 'Home Cooking 101'."

Katie grumbles under her breath before scraping the stuck egg-white from the pan with a fork.

"You're a violent cook," the taller of the two sighs wistfully, nuzzling her lightly freckled nose into Katie's waiting neck.

"I'm a violent _person_," Katie offers in reply, "now let me do as I please."

Effy's hold immediately slackens, "okay."

Katie's head is whipped around in an instant, glowering eyes hating Effy's soul from its core to the pores of its skin. She nearly hisses, but settles for a wounded moan, just before re-attempting the fried egg. Effy takes a stray marker off a shelf and ingrains some numbers into the marbled counter.

"When the house catches fire," Effy points at her handiwork, "just call the number. The fire brigade and all its glory will hop on over."

The girl's sense of humour has been elevated over the past month, in which she has moved in with Katie, on the sly, and decided on evading questions from her drunken parent and avoiding the subject with Emily and Naomi for as long as Katie wishes their little 'no strings attached' agreement to be kept from the spotlight. Effy obeys quietly and it is in her strategy to draw Katie into her via the 'guilt' card. Effy, though, doesn't _care_ for labels or confirmations or wedding bands as symbols of commitments. Labels are for the grocer's soup cans. Confirmations are for expiry dates on soup cans. Metal rings are for opening soup cans. And Effy hates soup.

"You are incorrigible."

Effy nearly breaks into a jig, "a big word and a big day for Katie fucking Fitch it is indeed."

"Oh, fuck you."

Effy corners Katie and knocks the utensils from her grips before slamming the girl into the counter. She places her palms upon the cupboards behind and nudges the girl onto the stage before first offering a greeting by the gentle touch of her pursed lips against Katie's collarbone.

"You want to?"

Katie almost curses.

Effy and Katie don't speak too much about consummating their little marriage or whatever Katie wants to call it. Katie stays away from Cook's innuendoes and Effy jabs disposable chopsticks from their Chinese takeaway into his flabby sides with a hint of enthusiasm until Cook's fit of guffaws is over. But at night Katie asks for warmth and Effy gives it willingly. Effy gives _everything_ willingly to Katie. She gives _everything_. It's unhealthy; that's what it is.

"I'd hate to force it on you," Effy continues, "but you must know what you are doing to me. You must be aware. You can't be so deliciously oblivious, now, can you? I think you are aware. Actually, I _know_ you are aware. Stop dangling the piece of meat in front of the lion. Soon you'll be mauled. I'm not going to always give in to you."

But she is, and Katie can sense the unfamiliar uncertainty in Effy's tone. She is almost shattered from that bit of rawness, that sliver of vulnerability that neither has really seen in Effy; not even Effy herself has truly known the true limits to her own vulnerability.

"I'm trying to cook breakfast."

It doesn't sound too convincing, but Effy nods along.

"Okay. I'm trying to tell my girlfriend she's rather beautiful. Is that okay?"

Katie, here, nearly drops dead; this is most probably due to the confession and the muffled proclamation of ownership. Neither, before, had ever wanted titles nor pedestals. Now Effy relents and takes a step forward, not knowing whether Katie will loosen her hold on the harness and let her topple from the rocky terrain.

"Bloody hell, Effy."

"I'd wager hell on myself for that, yes," Effy laughs once more, making light of the situation, "forget I said that."

Katie says nothing. Effy hates this, just as Katie hates her all-knowing eyes.

So Effy moves in, with the sleekness of a young panther approaching a challenge: a kill already fallen. And their lips connect. There aren't explosions nor fireworks nor sparks and motors going off in Katie's head. It's just a warm, pretty kiss. Flesh upon flesh in moistness and closeness is, in its own way, far more comforting and wonderful than intrigue and mystery.

The collision is one neither regrets after. Katie moves in, mirroring Effy, and pecks the other on the lips again.

"Give me time."

There is silence again.

"Okay."

There it is. There's the beauty of the caving in that neither is on a winning side. Both are caving in simultaneously. And love is a battle not won, always lost, but the losers never truly lose and never lose with souls seeking revenge for those to be avenged.

"But let me cook. Just that. Let me cook. Your apartment has been rather nice to me. I quite like it. So, let me cook, Katie. I'll do breakfast. You can take charge of lunch. Microwave something."

"Alright, Effy, be a bitch. Go on."

"I love you."

"Alright, you too."


End file.
